July, 1943
It was nearing midnight, and the crescent moon shone down on Diagon Alley, its silvery light dancing on the cobbles and the windows of the many shops and houses. The street was completely deserted – save for a tall man wearing a long black cloak and hood, who was striding briskly along, taking little notice of anything around him.
If any of the shopkeepers had bothered to crawl from their beds, and peer through their curtained windows, they probably would have taken very little notice of him, either. Not out of choice – for the residents of Diagon Alley were as gossip hungry as any – but because this man seemed, if anything, very keen to go about his business unnoticed. With his long, black cloak and a hood that completely hid his face, he seemed to simply blend into the darkness, not quite invisible, but certainly not altogether obvious.
The man, who had walked the whole distance of the street from the Leaky Cauldron without pausing, stopped in front of the huge marble shape that was Gringotts. He seemed to consider the building for a few moments, taking in its majesty and size, before turning to the left with a swish of black robes and disappearing down the dark steps to Knockturn Alley.
Here the light of the crescent moon did not reach the street. Perhaps the buildings were too close together, or perhaps the sinister nature of the place kept the moonlight at bay. Yet the man did not stop to consider the lighting. Instead he delved into the maze of dingy streets and alleyways, turning corners in seemingly random fashion before stopping in front of a solid brick wall, decorated only with a faded and tattered poster advertising some traveling show that had been and gone ten years previously. The man reached up with pale hands, and lowered his hood.
In truth, he was not a man at all – rather, a pale, handsome, dark-haired boy of around sixteen. There was a hint of some old, aristocratic bloodline in his haughty features, and when he curved his thin lips into a sneer of satisfaction, the arrogance of someone with power shone through.
He had found the place alright.
Reaching inside his robes, he drew out a very long, thin wand and tapped the wall. There was a grinding noise rather like stones being rubbed together, and then, with a grunt, an ugly stone face appeared in the wall.
It regarded the boy with small, mean eyes for a moment. Then it opened its mouth (revealing nothing but darkness within) and said gruffly:
"Well? 'Choo want, sonny?"
"I'm here to see Walter. I arranged this appointment three days ago." The boy's voice was soft, and he seemed perfectly calm even staring into the eyes of a talking wall.
The wall-face grunted.
"What was the name?" it asked, glaring at the boy.
"Gaunt."
"Oh," The wall seemed quite surprised by this response. "Oh, right. Well, you'd best get in then, sonny."
And without another word, the wall-face opened its mouth so wide that the boy could easily step through it. He did so, and entered a small, round, office, paneled with dark wood. As the mouth shut behind him, he looked around.
The office was a handsome room, considering that it was concealed behind a talking wall in the gutter of Knockturn Alley. There was a large, comfortable armchair behind a mahogany desk strewn with papers and quills. Two smaller armchairs sat before the desk. Everything was draped in green and silver hangings. Slytherin colours, the boy noted with a smile.
He stood alone, quite at ease, for a few minutes, before a door behind the desk opened and a man entered the little office.
The new arrival was shorter than the boy, with neatly combed grey hair and moustache. He wore a green waistcoat with silver embroidery, and. At the sight of the teenager standing in his office, he smiled widely.
"I'd expected someone older," he said with a chuckle. "Never mind, never mind, have a seat."
He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.
The boy sat. The man sat in his large chair, pulled out a wand, and conjured two glasses of wine. He handed one to the boy, who took it but did not drink it.
"So," said the man at last, "you'll be, what was it… Bartholemew."
The boy smiled politely.
"That is my name, yes."
The other man chortled, sipping his wine.
"Now really," he said, "you can't expect to fool an old hand like me so easily. But, in my line of work, I'm quite accustomed to secrecy, and frankly, it doesn't matter to me who you are. Long as you pay up." He added, winking.
The teenager just smiled calmly again. The man continued.
"Well, as you very well know, they call me Walter. I find people. If you want someone found, you come to me, simple as that. But you, now you've set me quite a challenge."
Walter gulped down the last of his wine and set the glass down on the desk. Leaning forwards, he pressed his fingertips together and studied the boy opposite him.
"I trust you have some idea of who you're dealing with, lad. I know of these…these Gaunts, and I can't say I fancy the company of them."
The boy looked at Walter for a moment before replying,
"I believe they are my family. I am not…certain, but there is some evidence-"
"Well of course there is, of course there is," interjected Walter, waving a hand dismissively, "or else you wouldn't be trying to track them down, would you? Unless…" Walter examined the boy shrewdly, "Unless you believe they have, erm, wronged you in someway?"
The boy sat in silence for a moment. Then replied, "That remains to be seen."
The two men stared long and hard at each other for several long minutes. Then Walter spoke.
"Well, it's not my job to ask questions. If it was, I'd be at some desk in the Ministry, and we wouldn't be having this discussion now. No, I answer questions. Now, these Gaunts…"
He pulled a piece of parchment towards him across the desk. The boy watched him closely, his expression hungry.
"They're a very old family," said Walter, reading from what looked like a page of notes, "with a history of, erm, instability and violence. Genetic defect, I think, which lasted throughout the generations as they made a habit of marrying their own cousins. But, they go right back. I've heard tell that they can trace their line back to Salazar Slytherin himself!"
At these words, the boy's face whitened, his fists clenched beneath the desk. He already knew of the Slytherin connection of course – the opening of the Chamber of Secrets had proven that – but he still got a certain feeling of elation from hearing his ancestry pronounced by others, as something to be admired, and respected.
Walter continued to read from his notes.
"But of course, you're interested in the, ahem, current generation. Well, I won't deny it boy; the Gaunts have seen better days. Last I heard, they had been living in a shack out near Little Hangleton. All their gold squandered years ago. There were three at the last count; Marvolo, the father; Morfin the deranged son, and Merope, the squib daughter."
Walter refilled his and the boy's glasses, not noticing how tightly the younger man gripped his, or how intently he was listening to his every word.
"Now, there was an incident a few years ago, before you were born I would think. They seemed to be quietly passing into obscurity until Morfin was convicted of an attack on a Muggle, the son of the wealthy landlord, Riddle."
A shadow crossed the boy's face at the mention of the name Riddle, but Walter seemed not to notice.
"Well, there was a fight when the Magical Law Enforcement Squad went to get him, and Marvolo ended up arrested too. They both went to Azkaban, and Merope disappeared soon after."
The boy spoke up.
"So are they still in prison? Marvolo and Morfin?"
Walter shook his head.
"Good lord no; they were both released years ago. But as for what happened after that, I cannot say. It seems the Gaunts were content to slide back into obscurity. They might all be dead for all I know."
The boy looked taken aback at this. When he spoke, it was in a voice of forced calm
"I thought you were supposed to find people."
Walter chuckled.
"Well I've found out all I can, boy. Nothing more I can do. I suggest you try the shack out near Hangleton. Only place I could come up with. Either that or the cemetery."
The boy stood up suddenly, his wand in his hand.
"Thank you for the information, Walter. I can't pretend that it was not useful. However, I feel that I can no longer pretend that you are."
Walter opened his mouth in shock.
"Wha-what do you mean?" he spluttered.
"I am finished with you, Walter." He sneered at the name. "Now really, you can't expect to fool an expert like me so easily. But, in my line of work, I am accustomed to secrecy and it does not really matter who you are. You are dead now."
Walter, however reacted faster than the boy seemed to expect. His wand was raised in a split second and a jet of red light shot from it.
The boy parried the spell effortlessly, knocking Walter off balance. He crumpled against a bookcase, breathing hard. They boy stepped forward, his wand aloft.
"Crucio."
Walter's screams were deafening in the enclosed space. He writhed on the floor, his mouth jammed open, howling in pain, until the boy lifted the spell.
Whimpering softly, Walter looked up at him.
"Who…who are you?"
The boy smiled, and this time, it was more of a bestial smirk than a handsome grin.
"I was Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort."
He raised the wand again.
"Avada Kedavara."